


the landing light

by eyesontheskyline



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Mental illness & good conversations, Minor Character Death, RIP Nathaniel Plimpton II, Smut, Sorry Not Sorry, sex and feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2020-11-22 03:31:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20867483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesontheskyline/pseuds/eyesontheskyline
Summary: Nathaniel's sabbatical is rudely interrupted by the death of his father, & Rebecca wants to be there for him.  Set nine months into the one year time skip in the finale.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s Darryl who tells her that Nathaniel Plimpton Senior is dead – he appears in the back room of Rebetzels while she’s unpacking a delivery and asks if she heard the news about Nathaniel’s dad. “No,” she says cautiously, although her body seems to have an idea of what’s coming – her heart speeds up, her palms starting to sweat.

“He died,” Darryl says, all wide eyes and stricken expression. “I just heard from White Josh who just heard from Nathaniel – he’s back in LA, dealing with all the…” Darryl waves a hand around vaguely, which she takes to mean _unpleasantness_.

“Shit,” she breathes. “Is Nathaniel okay?”

He raises his hands in a surrender gesture. “You know what I know,” he says. “I just thought you’d want to be in the loop. Anyway, I’ve got to get back upstairs – I’ve left Hebby with Jim and Tim, and – well –” he lowers his voice conspiratorially “– I try not to.” Already starting to back out, he tilts his head at her and adds, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Rebecca says, nodding vaguely. “Yeah, I’m fine. You go back. Thanks for letting me know.”

Her immediate impulse is to leave AJ to close up, to figure out where Nathaniel is and go straight there, but she squashes it. She and Nathaniel have not been completely out of touch since he left for Guatemala nine months ago, but their contact has been sporadic and careful, each treading lightly around the other’s need for space. And anyway, recently she’s been learning to temper her bull-in-China-shop attitude to just barrelling into places uninvited, throwing her whirlwind self into people’s lives with no warning.

So she finishes her shift, her mind never far from Nathaniel. She lets AJ leave early for his subversive cross stitch class, closes up, does her prep for tomorrow and drives home, fighting the impulse the entire time to just pick up the phone and call him. When she gets home, she drops her keys by the door and heads straight for her bedroom, falls heavily onto her back on the bed and closes her eyes.

She takes her time, does an emotional scan then writes a stream of consciousness in her notebook. It takes the edge off the intensity, removes the all-or-nothing, now-or-never, great-friend-or-worst-person-in-the-world angle from the decision and brings the whole thing back to what it really is: she is considering sending a text to her ex-boyfriend, who she cares about a lot, because his father is dead and she thinks he might need a friend. And because she wants to see him. And it is okay, she decides, to want to see him.

She types and deletes a lot of versions of the message, editing out a lot of over-explaining, excuse-making, terrible attempts at humour, and everything containing the word ‘sorry’ in any context because it’s far too loaded. By the time she hits send, she feels good about her decision. She sits down at her keyboard, flips open her notebook, and then her phone rings and she grabs it.

“Nathaniel,” she says, instead of _hello_, and winces, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Rebecca,” he replies, a touch of amusement in his voice.

“Yeah, that was weird,” she admits, pressing the heel of her hand into her forehead. “Hello. Hi.”

He laughs, an intentionally quiet laugh that tells her he is hiding somewhere away from a crowd for this phone call. “Hi. It was really good to hear from you,” he says, his voice low and warm. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says. “How – I mean – how is everything? Is that a stupid question? How are you doing?”

She listens to his slow exhale, and the sound cuts straight to her heart. “It’s a lot,” he admits. “I’m calling you from the bathroom of my parents’ – sorry, my mother’s house. I’ve been back for four days and it’s been… The opposite of what my life has been for the past nine months. The will is a lot, and the funeral plans. There are lawyers everywhere, and my mother… Well.” He clears his throat, and leaves it at that.

Her heart hurts for him, imagining him hiding in a fancy bathroom from a swarm of men just like his father. The last photo she saw of him, he was in the rainforest, offering an apple cube to a capuchin. “If you need anything,” she says. “Anything at all, I’m here, okay? If you want to talk, or just hang out with somebody who isn’t like, _in _the whole situation…?”

“That actually sounds… Very appealing.”

“Whenever you’re free,” she says.

“I might not be good company.”

“Were you ever?”

“Hilarious,” he says, but she can hear him smiling. “What are you doing tomorrow evening?”

“I’m meeting you,” she says, smiling right back. “At the time and location of your choice.”

“Excellent. I’ll text you. I guess I’d better get back…”

“Yeah,” she says, picking up a pen, clicking it a couple of times. “Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Rebecca,” he says, quiet hesitation in every syllable. “Thank you, again. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You too,” she says, dropping her voice to match his volume. Heat coils low in her stomach, and she wraps an arm around herself protectively, her heart rate picking up. “I’ve missed you. Goodnight, Nathaniel.”

* * *

She’s feeling unexpectedly nervous when she arrives – it’s fancier than anywhere she usually goes, a nice dress and heels kind of place, but also she’s not sure what to expect when she sees him. Talking to him on the phone felt warm and familiar, and agreeing to meet him here felt like the most natural thing in the world. He needs someone to see _him_, not his father’s son, and she’s more than happy to give him that. And okay, it’s not just altruism – she has missed him.

In fact, the further from the three dates fiasco she gets, the more she’s wanted to reach out to him. She’s settled into a comfortable friendship with Josh, navigated some awkward back-and-forth with Greg before her feelings for him eventually died in the water and it stopped being weird, but the warm pulse of longing she feels for Nathaniel has never really wavered. She has worked at making it a background feeling – a thing she knows about herself, to add to her ever growing collection – rather than the all-encompassing forest fire she would’ve once lit to keep herself warm. But it never goes away.

The truth is she’s still a little afraid of herself – of seeing him and undoing everything and having to push him away again, because she knows there would be no coming back. Since Valentine’s Day, she has resisted every stupid temptation to chase the high of romantic love and thrown herself wholeheartedly into all the other loves in her life, and with a whole lot of focus and hard work she’s finding something in herself she never thought she would: a _self_. And the more she learns, the more she thinks of the Rebecca who was happy with Nathaniel as some frightened, hatchling version of the one she's becoming now, and it gives her hope that maybe the self she’s finding – or as Doctor Akopian reminds her when she’s struggling, _building_ – is one he could love, and who could finally love him well. She feels for the first time like she's in a position to be a decent friend to him, and she so does not want to be wrong.

She does a breathing exercise on the sidewalk, smooths the deep blue fabric of her dress over her stomach, and steps inside the restaurant.

It’s polished and candlelit. Nathaniel is waiting for her at a table set for two in a crisp white shirt rolled up to the elbows, an after work look, with a scruff around his jaw that forcibly reminds her of their first, ill-advised kiss. But he’s different than he was then – tanned, for one, with a bare sadness in his expression that the Nathaniel she kissed in the elevator would never have let out in public. Her heart squeezes at the sight of him, and a beat later he looks up and spots her, his face softening into a welcoming smile. She breathes a sigh of relief.

There are no glitter canons. No trill of fairytale music. She is herself, with a fluttering heart and sweaty palms and no pull to fall into fantasy, and when she smiles back at him it feels real and easy.

He pulls her chair out for her then hesitates as their waitress leaves to let them settle, his arms held very still by his sides. She steps into him first, taking the advantage of the extra couple of inches the heels afford her and throwing her arms around his neck. He softens immediately, wrapping his arms right around her back and leaning down, resting his cheek against hers. “Hey,” he says.

She closes her eyes, lets herself melt a little into the hug. His cologne is different than she remembers, but the smell of him underneath is the same, and he feels warm and strong as ever under her palms. His hands press into her back, and she wonders what he’s noticing about her, what’s different and what isn’t. “Hi,” she replies, after too long. He gives her a parting squeeze then lets go, pushes her seat in for her as she sits, pulling her mind magnetically back to his fancy upbringing, and his father.

“Nathaniel…” she says as he sits down opposite her, and there’s nothing to say next.

“It’s okay,” he says, lifting the bottle of wine that’s been waiting on the table for her arrival. He tilts it toward her, a wordless question, and she slides her glass toward him. He pours, and they clink, then sip. He sets his glass down, fidgeting with his thumbs. “Obviously, it’s… Complicated. Difficult. But I’m okay.”

She nods, not sure how much to believe him, or how much he believes himself. “It’s good to see you,” she says. “I mean, obviously it’s not good you had to come back for this, but it’s -” She sighs. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says, smiling. “It’s good to see you too. How have you been?”

“Busy,” she says honestly. “I have Rebetzels, volunteering at the jail, group therapy, regular therapy, therapy homework, voice lessons, piano lessons, notebooks filled with stuff that used to only be inside my brain, a surprising number of friends -”

“I’m not sure I’d call it surprising,” he interjects, and she laughs. “That’s good, Rebecca. I’m happy for you.”

“And you?” she asks. “I mean, before this week, which I assume has been all kinds of terrible. How’s Guatemala?”

He opens his mouth to respond, then their waitress starts noticeably hovering, so they take a minute to look at the menu, and after ordering he answers immediately, “Guatemala has been great. It’s really the first time in my life I’ve done something I love just because I love it, and actually doing something meaningful – I needed that. And I needed some distance, I think. Not from you,” he adds quickly. “I mean, maybe also from you, but I meant…” He frowns.

“The Plimpton establishment?” she suggests, so he doesn’t have to say _my father_, and he tips his head in acknowledgement.

“He left me the firm,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that takes her by surprise.

“You weren’t expecting him to? Wasn’t that always…” She cringes, already regretting the question. “… The plan?”

“Wasn’t that the entire point of my existence up to this point, you mean?” he asks, an eyebrow quirking up. She opens her mouth to backpedal, and he waves it away. “Yes, it was,” he says. “It was, for a long time. That was always the understanding in the family and in the firm. But… Really our paths diverged a while ago, quite a bit before I left for Guatemala. I was… Under the impression…” He shakes his head, exhaling forcefully. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve been using my lawyer voice to talk about my father since I got back. I don’t know why I’m using it on you. Honestly, I haven’t had a real conversation with anybody in English for months.”

“Hey,” she says, shrugging. “Whatever voice you need to use to say the stuff you need to say, I support it. This is like, the definition of a tough time. It’s okay.”

“Thank you,” he says, to his folded hands on the table. He glances up at her, not quite meeting her eyes, and smiles tightly. “It’s been a strange few days.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Nathaniel, if you’re not up to sitting in a restaurant right now, we can go. I would’ve just asked you to come over, but I thought…”

“Neutral territory?” he suggests.

“Something like that,” she agrees, chewing her lip.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m okay here. Thank you.”

“Okay,” Rebecca says, aiming for an encouraging smile. He reciprocates, his smile sad but real, and it settles warm in her chest. “So. Your dad left you the firm.”

“Right,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. She follows the movement, cataloguing it – it’s a surprisingly private-Nathaniel gesture for such a public place. “And I have no idea what I’m going to do.”

She blows out a breath. “Well, what options do you have on the table?”

“The first option is the one everyone is expecting me to take,” he says, picking up his wine glass and taking a sip, then frowning into it. “They’re talking about it like it’s a done deal, actually. Like there’s no question.”

“Move to LA and run the firm,” she guesses, secondhand dread dropping heavy and cold in her stomach.

“Yeah.” He swirls his wine, staring down into it, and when he looks up, he’s holding his jaw tense, a shine in his eyes she’s sure wasn’t there before. “Or I stay in but step back, appoint a managing partner to run things day to day.”

“Or you sell,” she says quietly.

“Or I sell,” he agrees, and sighs. “You can imagine how that would go down, of course.”

If she’s honest with herself, she can’t. She always thought she had a handle on Nathaniel’s issues with his father. If not a full picture then at least a working understanding: enough to press his buttons when she wanted to, and eventually enough to know what was too close to a nerve to touch. She knew when to pretend beyond all plausibility she couldn’t hear his phone conversations, when to find an excuse to actually leave the room to spare his pride. She could tell from what he ate for lunch and the tension in his muscles as he ate it how close he was to meeting his father’s latest arbitrary target. But in all the time she knew him, she never really considered Nathaniel being the heir to his father’s firm in a meaningful way – maybe the old man never seemed human enough to die. Or maybe Nathaniel seemed too human to take over from him. And of course, she has never had to consider what she would do if _her_ terrible father died and left her an outrageously valuable law firm she didn’t want, because _her_ terrible father asks her for money for his other kid’s braces.

Instead of saying any of that, she spreads her palm flat in the middle of the table – she does it to catch his attention, because she can see him starting to retreat into his head, unfocused and frowning, and she really is not expecting it when he lays his hand over hers. The surprise must register on her face – he clears his throat, starts to pull his hand back toward him, and she catches it and holds it. “Hey,” she says as the warmth of him radiates into her palm. “We only get one life, right?”

He chews his lip, says nothing but gives her hand an almost imperceptible squeeze.

“You want to know my advice?”

“You’re asking?” he says, his mouth quirking into a smile.

She laughs, batting him. “Shut up, I’m evolving.”

“Ah.” Amused, he lays his other hand over hers, brushing a thumb over her fingers. “Yes, I think I would like to hear your advice.”

“Okay. My advice is that you don’t have to make this decision right now. Put somebody in charge short term, get the immediate mess out of the way and give yourself time to think.” She tilts her head, gives him a smile. “Go back to your monkeys, Nathaniel.”

“That is… Surprisingly level headed of you,” Nathaniel says, eyebrows raised. “Not a hint of a harebrained scheme in sight.”

“What are you suggesting, Plimpton?”

“I guess I’m suggesting that I’ve missed you.”

The waitress arrives with their food then, because of course. They obediently sit up straight, taking their arms off the table and sitting in silence as she sets everything down, straightens their cutlery, refills their wine glasses, tells them to enjoy their meal, and walks off, painfully slowly. Rebecca stares after her, idly wondering whether she can turn the inevitable awkwardness of having a heartfelt conversation in a restaurant into lyrics. In the time he went without a response, Nathaniel has retreated inward, just holding the stem of his wine glass between his fingertips, staring at it intently and twisting it very slightly back and forth.

Rebecca slides her foot forward and nudges his ankle – just a quick tap to get his attention. “Hey,” she says, and when he looks at her he is so closed off it breaks her heart a little. “Not to hit on you in your time of distress or anything,” she begins softly, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders, “but I have missed you too. And I’m glad to be here with you, eating this poorly timed, outrageously expensive salad in these terrible circumstances. And if after dinner you wanted to go somewhere else together, I would not be opposed. But if you would prefer to not open this admittedly very loaded can of worms right now, I would also support that decision. I just want to be here for you, however you need me to be, because you’re really important to me.”

He lets out a long breath, his eyes finding their way to hers. “Rebecca,” he says, choked.

“I know that’s a lot,” she says quickly. “I just… I didn’t want you to be wondering anymore, I guess? I mean, I’m not saying you were, but I know that in the past…” She screws her eyes shut, takes a breath. “Shut up, Rebecca.”

When she looks back at him, he's staring at her, his expression unreadable. “I’m glad to be here with you too,” he says after a moment, catching her foot between his.

* * *

Nathaniel, it turns out, has been working pretty much every waking hour, around a third of his time spent actually lawyering and the rest of it hands on helping out at the sanctuary. The image of him bottle feeding orphaned monkeys hasn’t stopped being surreal to her, but he sounds alive when he talks about it. He’s been helping some staff and volunteers learn English, but otherwise speaking only in Spanish – he tries this on her, and she discovers she is much rustier than she thought and taps out after a few stilted sentences. He’s made time to read a lot of books, and discovered poetry has value beyond passing mandatory college courses. When he talks about anything apart from his father and the firm, he sounds happier than she’s ever heard him.

Rebecca fills him in on her life too – he’s curious about songwriting, and at his hopeful smile she agrees to play him one of her songs on keyboard at some point. The lyrics aren’t done, she warns him, and she’s not brave enough to sing in front of him yet. (He generously doesn’t point out that she sang more or less constantly the entire time they shared an office, or that they were literally in a musical together.) She tells him about the cases she and Paula are working on at the jail, the trip she and Heather took to New York to see Valencia and Beth and a cute off-Broadway musical, and the week she spent right after it up until ridiculous hours feverishly writing musical theatre style songs. She tries to explain the thrill of sitting in a room with any combination of her girls, writing stuff she didn’t ever think she could share while they cheer her on. She tells him she feels like she’s starting to know herself, and his face lights up like she’s shown him magic is real.

He waves away her half-hearted attempt at paying half for the meal, and then they’re outside, standing under a streetlamp. She decisively inputs her own address when she orders the Uber. She tucks herself into his side while they wait, and he wraps an arm around her and pulls her close. She nestles against his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady under her ear. Something in the back of her mind is yelling at her that she’s broken and stupid and crazy and is definitely going to screw this up, and something like panic starts to flutter in her throat, but if she really concentrates, she can see it for what it is. _Up yours, Tyler_.

“Huh?” Nathaniel says, balancing his chin on the top of her head.

“Oh, I meant to only say that on the inside,” she replies. “I’ll tell you about Tyler some time – he isn’t a real person – it’s a whole thing.”

“Hey,” he says, his voice quiet. “If this is too much, I really don’t mind going back to the hotel -”

“No! God, no, please don’t. Just… Maybe tonight we shouldn’t…?” she begins, her body already protesting against the suggestion – she tingles everywhere her body is in contact with his, heat radiating out from his hands on her back, warming every nerve and pooling between her thighs. It’s the healthy thing to do, she knows, especially when all the worst parts of her brain start screaming at her to take it back.

“Okay,” he says, without hesitation.

She takes half a step back to look up at him, resting her hands on his chest, looking for disappointment or confusion or hurt or anything that looks remotely like rejection. Instead, he gives her a soft smile, combs his fingers through her hair and tucks a strand behind her ear. His fingertips trail feather-light down her neck, sending a thrill up her spine, his eyes on hers. It feels safe in all the ways she was afraid it would feel dangerous. “But if you wanted to kiss me…” she begins, her eyes already drifting shut.

His lips are on hers a moment later, one hand cupping the back of her neck and the other spread across her back – she slides a hand up around his neck and holds him close. It’s soft and gentle and makes her ache in the best possible way.

* * *

She borrows some sweatpants and a t-shirt for Nathaniel from AJ, brings them to him as he sits on the edge of her bed checking the calendar on his phone. “In the interests of our self-control, I thought you might want to sleep in these,” she suggests, sitting down beside him. “AJ says if we have sex after you put them on, I owe him a whole new wardrobe, so…”

“_I_ owe him, surely,” he says, frowning at his phone then looking up to take the clothes from her with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, fine,” he says on an exhale. He gets up, drops his phone on the bedside table, starts unbuttoning his shirt then freezes. “I’m sorry, did you want me to change in the bathroom or -?”

“No, no no,” she says quickly. “I’m not trying to avoid intimacy or anything, I just… I want to be sure I’m breaking the pattern. I haven’t always made the most… _Reasoned_ decisions, where sex is involved.”

He laughs, a strangled, half amused sound that says _you don’t say_, and she throws the t-shirt at him, pulling a face. He catches it deftly, unbuttons his shirt and pulls the t-shirt over his head with no ceremony, and she makes her very best effort (which is to say a very poor effort) at not staring too much at him for the moments he’s shirtless. “Subtle,” he says, smirking at her, and sits on the edge of the bed to kick off his shoes and change into the sweatpants. 

“You know me,” she trills, shameless, then turns her back on him. “Unzip me?”

He laughs, and stands, resting his hands on her shoulders for a second. It somehow steadies her and undoes her at the exact same time – she feels like a liquid pooling at his feet, and when he pulls the zipper of her dress down the length of her back she actually shivers. She steps out of the dress, unhooks her bra and pulls on her sushi PJs without making eye contact with him. “There,” she breathes, sitting down on the bed. “How mature of us.”

“Very,” Nathaniel agrees. He sits up against the headboard and drops his head back, clearly exhausted. She sits facing him, legs crossed in front of her.

“You want to get some sleep?” she asks. “Do you have an early start?”

“I have an earlyish start.” He sighs heavily and she shuffles closer so her knee rests on his thigh. He drapes a hand over it, makes circles on her thigh with his fingertips. “Which I am dreading, honestly. This whole thing is like one big miserable business deal.” Surprisingly vulnerable, he glances up at her face then back down at his hand on her leg. “This isn’t what death is like in other people’s families, is it?”

She winces. “I think this is a Plimpton special.”

He closes his eyes, rubs at his forehead. “I’ve had a really good time with you,” he says softly. “Ever since I got back, everything around me has been trying to turn me back into this corporate monster, until tonight. And I’m not ready for it to end.”

“This doesn’t have to be an ending,” she says gently, and he squeezes her thigh. It sends tingles shooting through her in every direction, her body ridiculously tuned into his. _Get it together, Bunch_. “Get some sleep, Nathaniel. And do whatever you need to do to get through whatever hell the Plimpton estate has in store for you tomorrow, and come back here and _be a person_. Rinse, repeat, Guatemala.”

“You really think I should go back?”

There’s something guarded in his voice, and she thinks she hears the part he doesn’t say: _do you really want me to go back?_

She tilts her head, catches his gaze and holds it, brings a hand up to brush the scruff of his jaw. “You are doing something for yourself for the first time in your whole life,” she says. “Something you _love_. And – wait, it’s fine to speak ill of the dead right now, right? Just a little ill?” He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t object, so she ploughs on. “Your father has controlled enough of your life already. He doesn’t get to just die and drag you to corporate hell with him. You don’t owe his memory a damn thing.”

Part of her expects him to bristle at that – she braces for at least a flare of anger – but he doesn’t. He just closes his eyes and rests his head back against the wall, and she drops her hand down to squeeze his. “Come on,” she whispers. “You need to sleep.”

She gets up to switch off the light, and they climb under the covers together. Predictably, the combination of the darkened room and horizontal position heighten everything. Her body comes alive with electricity, goosebumps everywhere, and he seems so sad and exhausted and she wants to make him happy, and she is so, so tempted to throw her own rule out of the window. Every nerve in her body wants to climb on top of him right now. But she’s all too aware that throwing rules out of windows every time temptation rolls in is how she gets herself in trouble, so she grits her teeth and squeezes her thighs together and fits herself against Nathaniel’s side, a hand splayed on his chest, rising and falling with each breath.

“You know I didn’t come out tonight expecting this,” he says, his voice low and uncertain in the still air. “Or hoping for it, even.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says, nuzzling into him. “It’s okay though, right?”

“It’s so much more than okay. I just need you to know that I haven’t been… Waiting. This isn’t a pounce-when-the-opportunity-arises thing.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

He shifts onto his side and pulls her against him – she nestles under his chin, burrowing into the fabric of the borrowed t-shirt, breathing him in. “Hey, Nathaniel?”

“Mm?”

“I’m really sorry about your dad. In whatever way it makes sense to be sorry.” She feels the catch in his breath, his arms tightening around her. “And in case it wasn’t clear,” she adds, “whatever comes next… I’m here, okay? I want to be right here.” He presses a kiss to the top of her head, sending a tingle from her scalp to her toes. The glitter doesn’t consume her, and neither does the darkness, and this feeling becomes a new thing she knows about herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My second CXG fic! I'm excited. So I was going to wait until I'd finished this completely before I started posting, but it turns out I have no self control, so thank you for being here and enabling me.
> 
> Because I'm a nerd who loves a double meanings, the title is inspired by 'K2' by Elbow ("Dickhead's done a runner and he's wondering if anyone cares - is the landing light on?") with much love and affection, despite that being a hilariously British lyric.
> 
> Any feedback is so very appreciated, as always, and stay tuned for chapter two!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up that they briefly discuss past suicide attempts in this chapter. In less detail than in the show, but it's there, so. A warning.

The next day, she drops Nathaniel at his hotel in the morning. She goes to therapy, and tells Dr Akopian the truth: she is still afraid, but this feels different, and it feels right and warm and safe, and she wants to do the work to keep it that way. She gets her homework – a diary of her emotions, triggers and responses – and she feels hopeful. If she’s not mistaken, Dr Akopian seems hopeful too.

She calls Nathaniel on her lunch break and offers to pick him up when he’s free for the evening. “I’ll be at my mother’s house, with my father’s lawyers,” he says, like it’s a warning. “My afternoon is finishing up funeral plans.”

“Even more reason for a getaway vehicle, no?”

“It does hold a certain appeal when you put it that way,” he says, sounding utterly exhausted already. “If you’re sure… I’ll see you at five thirty?”

“You got it. Hang in there, Nathaniel.”

* * *

She really shouldn’t be surprised, she thinks, as she gets nearer the address Nathaniel texted her. This neighbourhood is everything she should’ve expected, ridiculously fancy houses on ridiculously large plots of land, all secure gates and fancy cars. The Plimpton house is exactly as imposing as she would’ve imagined when she first met Nathaniel, but at some point the thought of him in a place like this has become incongruous.

She navigates the security situation, parks her car, and a small middle aged lady in a cardigan meets her at the front door, opening it before she can touch the doorbell. “Good evening,” she says, and just as Rebecca opens her mouth to reply, Nathaniel appears from a doorway. “Thank you, Bernice,” he says. “Rebecca’s with me.” Bernice nods at him, pulls the front door shut and disappears upstairs.

For a precious moment, they’re alone in the hallway, and Nathaniel’s hand finds Rebecca’s waist. He’s visibly agitated, his jaw held tense, breathing like he’s been running. “Hey,” she says softly, a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

“I -” he begins, then there’s the click of heels on floorboards and he turns. “Mother,” he says, as another woman walks down the hall toward them. Rebecca could never really see Nathaniel in his father, but as his mother comes nearer, she thinks she gets the resemblance. She’s oddly formal, all pearls and long lines and elegant bone structure, her eyes pale blue and deeply sad. “Mother, this is my friend Rebecca,” he says.

Rebecca holds out her hand, and Mrs Plimpton grasps it. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she says, then Nathaniel’s hand is firm on her waist again, edging them closer to the door, very clearly trying to make an exit, but there’s someone else striding down the hall, an older man in a pinstriped suit.

“Nathaniel!” he says, his voice inappropriately loud in what is so clearly a tense atmosphere, and Rebecca flinches. “Glad I caught you. We just have a couple more things we need you to look over before you leave for the evening. Couple of signatures we need, you know.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” Nathaniel says tersely. Rebecca rests a hand above his elbow, squeezing gently, feeling totally helpless. She can feel the panic coming off him in waves.

The man looks affronted, his expression strikingly similar to one she has seen on Nathaniel’s father, and Nathaniel relents immediately. “We need to make it quick,” he says. He turns apologetically to Rebecca. “I’ll be right back.”

“It’s okay, Nathaniel,” she says. “Honestly, take your time, I’m okay.”

He looks at her for a long moment, looking like the last thing he wants to do in the world is walk away, but the guy in the suit clears his throat and Nathaniel grits his teeth, gathers his composure, and follows him into a room down the hall. Mrs Plimpton gestures for Rebecca to follow her, so she does, into a sitting room so dark and overbearing and packed with clearly expensive objects her eyes don’t know where to go. She feels like she’s walked into a wall of rose scent, and it becomes immediately clear why. Almost every surface is covered with vases of them, deep red and picture perfect, if a little unsettling in sheer number. “These are beautiful,” she says quietly, feeling extremely out of place in her post-Rebetzels outfit of dark wash jeans and emerald blouse.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mrs Plimpton says with a courteous smile and an unnerving, distant quality to her voice, leading the way to the sofa and sitting. “We have a gardener, but I tend to the roses myself.”

Rebecca sits too, perched on the edge of the sofa with her knees pushed together, looking around the room because she can’t quite bring herself to look at Nathaniel’s mother. There’s so much dark pattern in here, so much stuff, and _so many roses_. Two thoughts slam into her simultaneously: she’s sitting in the consequences of someone else’s obsessive spiral, and she can’t imagine a child growing up in this house. “Nathaniel brought me some of these once,” she says, making the connection suddenly, touching the nearest rose gently with her fingertips. “When I… I was sick. They’re really lovely.”

Mrs Plimpton turns, eyes fixed on Rebecca’s face, presumably making a connection of her own. “Yes, Nathaniel mentioned you to me,” she says. With unexpected intensity, she leans forward and says in a hushed voice, “Are you feeling better now?”

“Yeah,” Rebecca says, holding herself very still. The combination of the room and the roses and the intense, unspoken sadness of the woman in front of her is activating her fight-or-flight, blood pounding in her ears, and it’s all she can do to keep herself on the seat. She knows her oversharing can be a lot, but this next-level repression is suffocating, and she’s only been here two minutes. “I have a good doctor,” she says carefully, her throat feeling suddenly dry. “And good medicine. I’m doing much better.”

Mrs Plimpton stares at her a few seconds longer, then nods and sits further back on the sofa. “That’s good,” she says, very quietly. “That’s very good to hear. I’ve wondered about you.”

“I…” Rebecca begins, with no real idea what she’s going to say next. It feels like she’s supposed to give a pep talk, supposed to say that anti-depressants aren’t a big deal, or that if you haven’t found a therapist who works for you, you can look for a better fit, or that it’s okay to have no idea how you feel about anything. But it couldn’t be clearer that this is not a woman who talks about her mental health, and she doesn’t want to make life any more difficult for Nathaniel. Before she can choose one of the probably wildly inappropriate things she’s thinking about saying, the door opens, and Nathaniel is standing in the doorway, looking tense and rattled and like he needs to get the hell out of here. She stands, already heading for the door, magnetically pulled to his side. “Thank you, Mrs Plimpton,” she says. “I’m glad to meet you, and I – I’m sorry about your husband.”

“Thank you, dear,” she says, still quiet and distant, picking up a rose and a set of pruning scissors from the coffee table. She glances up. “Goodbye, Nathaniel.”

“Goodbye, mother,” he says, and starts to leave. He turns back in the doorway, hesitant, and Rebecca has never seen him look so small. “Mom. If you need me…” he says, his hands balling to nervous fists.

She smiles at him but says nothing, and Rebecca slips her hand into his and squeezes. He squeezes back and doesn’t stop – he leads her from the room, gripping her hand hard as he strides down the hall, outside, down the steps, down the drive and up to her car, Rebecca half running at his side to keep up. “Wow,” she breathes, getting into the driver’s seat, flexing her tingling fingers as the blood rushes back to them.

“Yeah,” he says, dropping in beside her, his voice sounding like it takes real effort. He grabs the knot of his tie and pulls it loose, undoing his top button and closing his eyes. “I just… Really need to get out of here.”

“Commence getaway, copy that.”

She drives, and he sits with his hand over his eyes, his breathing jagged and laboured, his body held tense. Her own racing heart clenches in sympathy – as soon as they’re out of the immediate neighbourhood, she glances sideways at him, takes his free hand and places it on his stomach. “Breathe from here,” she says, eyes back on the road. “Out first. And let me know if you need me to pull over.”

She waits, taking deep breaths of her own, her heart slowing until she’s no longer aware of it, then she looks back over at him. He’s still sitting with his hand over his closed eyes, chewing his lip, but his chest is rising and falling at a reasonable rate. She rests a hand on his thigh, and he takes it, brushes his thumb over her knuckles.

“I don’t know what that was,” he says a little awkwardly, after a couple more silent minutes. “But I’m sorry.”

“That, my friend, was an anxiety attack,” Rebecca replies. “And you have nothing to be sorry for. Your first?”

“Uh, no, I guess not,” he admits. “But it’s been a while. And I don’t think I’ve ever done it in front of people before, or… Given it a name.”

“Well, I’m not people,” she says. “And anxiety and I are well acquainted, as you’re probably aware.”

“I kind of crushed your hand.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’m much tougher than I look.” She holds her hand up in front of his face, wiggles her fingers. “See? Good as new.”

He kisses her fingers one by one, his lips just grazing her knuckles, and goosebumps tingle up her arm. “Thank you,” he says, quiet and soft.

“Any time. Really.”

* * *

Back at her apartment, she does her therapy homework at the kitchen table while Nathaniel makes dinner. She writes that she felt _anxious_ and _helpless_ and _in control_ and _proud_, starting out a confused jumble then writing her way to some kind of acceptance of the ambiguity and contradictions. _Being human is confusing_, she concludes. She’s lost count of how many times she has written that sentence. She closes her notebook and sits with her chin in her hands for a while, watching him busying around the kitchen, barefoot and pleasantly domestic in his own sweatpants and t-shirt, cooking stir fry. This looks so much more like his natural habitat than his mother’s weirdly oppressive sitting room, and it fills her mind with a thousand questions – some past version of herself would be probing for every detail, and the temptation is definitely there, but she sees the insecurity in that now, in trying to find a way to break in instead of just walking through the open door.

But if she’s going to avoid falling into obsessive behaviour, she probably shouldn’t just be silently watching him cook, so she gets up, crosses the room and rests a hand between his shoulder blades as he scoops some stir fry into a couple of bowls. He wipes his hands on a dish towel and turns, reaches down around her waist, tightening his arms around her, and she gets his intention just in time to loop her arms around his neck – he boosts her up onto the counter, and she wraps her legs around him and pulls him in close. Her hands come to rest at the back of his head, where his hair is short and makes her palms tingle, and they kiss long and slow and a little breathless, his lips firm and insistent on hers, fingertips digging into her hips, and she is certain she knows the temptation he’s fighting because she’s right there with him, her body alive with want, humming with electricity.

This is the part that always came easily to them, the part they spent eight months using as shorthand for feelings they couldn’t express any other way without blowing their world apart.

They break apart, both breathing hard, and he drops his head to her shoulder and wraps his arms around her, holding on like he’s afraid she might slip away. She holds him between her knees, makes soothing circles on the tense muscles of his back, tuned into the steady rise and fall of his breaths. “You know, that house would get to anyone,” she says.

His arms tighten around her for a moment, then he pulls back, dropping his hands to her hips again. He chews at the corner of his mouth, and all awkward hesitation, he says, “I don’t know how to talk about any of this yet. I want to, I do, but I -” he swallows the end of the sentence, resets, and adds, “I also don’t know if I can eat right now, and I need you to not make a big deal out of it.”

“Nathaniel, of course,” she says, breathless. She can feel the warmth she feels for him all over her face. He smiles back, his hands squeezing her hips. “It’s okay to just be a mess right now,” she says, sliding off the counter and hugging him around his waist. Then, because there’s nothing else to say, “You want to watch a movie?”

She carries their bowls over to the sofa, sits them on the coffee table and gets them a couple of glasses of water while Nathaniel scrolls through her Netflix looking for something to watch. She puts the glasses down on the table too, sits down beside him. “You’re in the romcom section,” she states, looking at the screen with raised eyebrows.

“So?” he says, defiant.

She grins. “You’re so full of surprises.”

“Whereas you are always entirely predictable.”

“I maintain you should’ve expected to be stabbed in the neck with a pen that day.”

He looks at her sideways, smiling, and she feels shy suddenly. Their history stretches out infinitely in the tiny space between them. She meant it when she told him some of the happiest times in her life had been with him. She had never doubted how he felt about her – run from it, yeah, but never doubted it, not even with the echo of his rejection of monogamy always ticking over in the back of her mind, filling her with excuses. She knew the moment he stopped believing it, and it scared the shit out of her. She’d used him when she felt used; she’d been shattered and torn him open to see his broken pieces. She had seen love in his eyes like she’d never seen it anywhere else, and in her darkest moments she’d hated him for it, for showing her this was a thing she could have if she wasn’t such an unworthy, irredeemable mess. She catches that thought, the way it makes her heart hammer in her throat, and she forces herself to watch it retreat. “It was bad timing,” she says, and she doesn’t remember actually deciding to say it out loud but there it is in the air between them.

“Stabbing me with a pen?” he says, turning a little to face her, eyebrows raised. “How would you have timed it, given the choice?”

“Not _that_,” she says, rolling her eyes. She chews her lip, looking at him uncertainly. “Us. Every time. Bad timing.”

“Ah,” he says, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. It’s so familiar and so _him _it makes her feel warm from head to toe, and she leans into his hand – he threads his fingers into her hair and her eyes fall shut. “And now?” he says, hesitant, his thumb stroking her scalp.

“It should be wrong,” she says quietly, forcing her eyes open to meet his. “Shouldn’t it? Your dad, and Guatemala…”

“That’s irrelevant,” he says simply. “The timing was never wrong…” He pauses, considering. “Externally.”

She laughs in spite of herself. “Did you just ‘it’s not me it’s you’ me?”

“No, I -”

“I know what you mean,” she says quickly, wrapping a hand around his forearm and squeezing. “You’re right. It was me.”

“And me,” he reminds her gently. “When you were trying to come down to earth and live in reality and I was trying to pack you onto a private jet to Hawaii, for example.”

She feels her head tilt to the side as his words sink in. “Huh,” she says, processing. “You’re right. I don’t think I ever realised what I hated about that idea.”

“Neither did I, for too long,” he admits. “Talking to monkeys has a lot of midnight epiphanies to answer for.”

She grins. “We’re a real mess.”

“We certainly have been,” he allows, half smiling.

“I’m still a mess,” she says quietly. She’s never sure how to handle this, the fact that even at her best she should definitely come with a warning label. Putting her mugshot on her dating profile definitely wasn’t it. “I know I’m more – settled. More level. But I’m still me. I’m never going to be…” She squeezes her eyes shut before even saying it, because it still hurts, because she still wants it, even though everyone keeps telling her it isn’t a real thing. “… Normal.”

“Rebecca,” he says, reaching for her with both hands. He pulls her into a hug and she goes willingly, curling against his side. “I don’t need you to be normal. I just need you to be honest. To not to run from me if it gets difficult.”

She closes her eyes, sees the darkness on the horizon, imagines how little effort it would take to run headlong into it. She toys with the soft fabric of his t-shirt, absorbing the warmth of him underneath, syncing her breaths with the steady rise and fall of his chest under her hand. He feels solid and real, and with a wave of happiness she realises that she does too. “I can do that,” she says, and believes it.

His arms tighten around her, grounding reassurance. “You can,” he says, his voice low. “And what about you? What do you need from me?”

She takes a moment, really thinks about it, and can only think of one word. “Reality.”

He kisses the top of her head. “I can do that,” he says into her hair.

She takes a breath, releases it all in a rush. “Well, that got super intense.”

“Yeah. You okay?”

She retrieves the TV remote from under her leg and hands it to him. “I’m okay,” she confirms. “Romcom time?”

He chooses one apparently at random, and she shifts a little to see the screen without breaking contact, holding the hand he has draped over her shoulder. It’s truly terrible, every cliché in the book, and she marvels at how transparently stupid it is that she ever thought her life should look like this. After a while she remembers she’s hungry, sits up straight and grabs her bowl from the table. Nathaniel tenses momentarily. She crosses her legs, letting her knee fall onto his thigh, and he rests a hand there and relaxes again. The food is cold by now, but it doesn’t matter much – it’s gingery and delicious. The movie’s entire ensemble cast find themselves in a bar on karaoke night, and Nathaniel says, “Oh my god.”

“What?” she says, through a mouthful of noodles.

“It’s a gratuitous karaoke moment,” he replies, sounding equally horrified and transfixed.

“Oh you’re a real connoisseur, aren’t you?”

“Shh, you don’t want to miss this.”

He’s right. It’s awful, and also great. The characters start out sounding like her at her worst, and end up sounding like her singing teacher at her best, in the space of three minutes. She glances at Nathaniel and he’s grinning. He catches her eye, takes a slice of bell pepper from her bowl and eats it. She grabs his fork from the table and offers it to him, eyes on the screen. He takes it, she settles back against him and they share the rest of her dinner.

* * *

After the movie, she stretches out on the sofa, her feet in his lap. “So I should probably apologise,” he says, resting his hands over her ankles, “for leaving you alone with my mother with no warning. It was… Not my intention.”

“Nathaniel, it’s really okay. Navigating awkward Plimpton house interactions is part of what being here for you looks like, and I’m fine with it. And she was fine – just wait until you get left alone in a room with my mother.”

He gives her a tiny smile, but it fades almost immediately. “She’s…” He wraps a hand around her ankle and she stretches out her toes. “She’s intense right now,” he says eventually. “Especially right now, I mean. And uh…”

She waits, but he doesn’t say anything else, just stares down at her feet in his lap.

“It seems like there’s something you’re not saying,” she prompts. She gives him another minute, then just goes for it. “And if it’s that she knows about my suicide attempt, I know.”

His whole body jolts a little, his eyes slamming shut, and she winces. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly. She pulls her feet away and sits up, facing him. “I just – I thought that might be the thing you weren’t saying because it’s an awkward thing to say, and I’m very practiced at saying awkward things like they’re casual conversation, so…”

He smiles reluctantly. “Don’t be sorry, Rebecca,” he says. “You’re right. That’s what I was thinking about. It’s – I know it isn’t my story to tell. I don’t want you to think I just…” He trails off helplessly, fidgeting with his thumbs.

“It doesn’t seem like you and your mother have a gossiping relationship, honestly,” she says. He meets her eyes for a second then looks away. “Hey,” she says, tilting her head, trying to catch his attention. “Whatever it is, it’s okay. It’s okay that you told her – it isn’t a big secret or anything. It’s just a thing that happened.”

He swallows, hard. “She did the same thing,” he says, his voice quiet and controlled, his body held very still. She finds herself going still too, his careful tone pinning her to the sofa. “When I was ten, in our house. I found her, and then my father made me leave, and she was gone for a month, and we never talked about it. Until you.”

On the last word, he looks back at her, his eyes shining, and there have already been too many _sorry_s for another one to mean anything, so she just breathes, “Shit, Nathaniel.”

It breaks the hush, at least – he exhales on a laugh, dropping his chin to his chest. “Yeah,” he says. He looks away, swipes at his cheek with the back of his hand, and she pretends not to notice. He looks back at her, so much warmth mixed into the sadness on his face it takes her by surprise. She just stares back at him, processing, feeling a hundred different things at once, none of them fully forming as thoughts. He seems to get it – she has rarely felt an emotion without it being all over her face. He leans in, gives her a quick kiss, then gets up and disappears into the bathroom.

She stares after him for a few seconds, letting the information sink in, her mind whirling with it, trying to make sense of him in this new context. But she isn’t getting anywhere – wave after wave of messy, complicated emotion crashes over her, and she can’t grab onto any one of them, can’t think of a single thing to say that means anything at all.

Instead, she goes to her keyboard and sits, takes a steadying breath and plays a couple of warm up scales to unfreeze her fingers. Then she starts on the closest thing she has to a finished song. She plays it through once, settling into the familiar notes – she still has to concentrate hard on making her fingers behave as they’re supposed to, but this one song she knows well enough that it has started to feel like home. She finishes, glances up at the closed bathroom door, then starts again, this time humming the melody. The door opens a couple of lines in and he stands there, leaning against the frame – she isn’t quite bold enough to look up at him, but she starts to add lyrics where she has them.

It feels different than singing in front of him ever has before – not a show tune, not a silly taunt, not the pi song. Something that’s only hers, from inside her brain, that exists because of her. It feels vulnerable and scary, like telling a secret.

Her fingers fall still and then he’s taking her hand, tugging her to her feet, tilting her chin up so their eyes meet. “You are incredible,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and with tears stinging at her eyes and a desperate little sobbing sound she didn’t mean to make, she grabs his neck and pulls him down to her. They melt together, lips crashing together, breathing each other in, and his hands are everywhere, sliding up her back under her shirt, into her hair, and when they stumble together through her bedroom door she has never been more certain of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, friends! Any feedback is so appreciated, as always. Feel free to say hello here or on tumblr - I'm eyesontheskyline there too. And stay tuned for more :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: they get naked. (Please note the tags and ratings have changed because these two fools wouldn't keep their clothes on.)

They crash toward her bed, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his t-shirt as they kiss, and she pushes him backwards until he drops onto the bed and she comes down almost on top of him, a leg thrown over his. Her body has not forgotten any of this, already humming with desperate energy everywhere his hands land. Rocking into the firm muscle of his thigh, she leans into him, kisses along his rough jaw, tasting his skin, a hand curled tight around the back of his neck.

Then he catches her upper arm, wrapping a hand around her bicep and pushing her back a little. “Wait,” he breathes, and a whine escapes her as his mouth breaks contact with hers. His eyes meet hers, searching. “Are you sure about this? You said -”

“That was yesterday,” she says, dropping her face back to his, catching his mouth with hers.

He melts back into the kiss, a hand sliding between her shoulder blades, teeth raking across her lower lip, but breaks free and pushes back again, pushing himself up on his elbows, his pupils blown but eyebrows knit with concern. “Rebecca. Why? This isn’t pity sex, is it?”

His face is an inch from hers, his laboured breath hot as it lands on her lips, and the intensity of his gaze sends a shiver up her spine. Despite the impatience fizzing in her veins, her heart races with affection for him. “It is not pity sex,” she says, her voice quiet and hoarse, eyes on his, willing him to get it, to be on board, because she is sure she’s never wanted anything – anyone – so completely. “Yesterday I was afraid I wasn’t strong enough for this yet. I was afraid we didn’t know how else to communicate.”

He moans low in his throat, winds a hand back into her hair and pushes her onto her back, rolling on top of her – she arches up into him, hands around his back, wriggling so his thigh is between her legs again as he drops his mouth to her neck, kissing insistently under her ear, setting her whole body alight and drawing a low whine out of her that should probably be embarrassing but isn’t. She feels him smile against her neck, his free hand sliding up under her t-shirt, his fingertips grazing the underside of her breast, and she pulls him closer, pressing his thigh into her, her breaths already coming in desperate gasps.

“It’s been a while,” she murmurs, writhing against him, searching for the right friction. “So, disclaimer. I might be – rusty, or – _ah_ – or ridiculously turned on, like, immediately.”

He laughs into her neck, slides a thumb over her nipple and breathes, “Glad we’re on the same page.” His voice is low and warm, his lips against her neck and his nose just nudging her earlobe, and he presses himself against her thigh to demonstrate, and _god_ he is so ready for this.

“Nathaniel,” she breathes, sliding a hand down to touch him through the front of his sweatpants – he pushes against her, apparently involuntarily, with a strangled groan that shoots right through her. “Nathaniel, just – take your damn clothes off.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, pushing himself off the bed. She kneels, struggling out of her clothes and watching him hungrily as he pulls the t-shirt over his head, shoves his sweatpants and underwear down and steps out of them, and then just stands perfectly still and stares at her, his lips parted slightly, taking her in. His eyes are dark and wanting as they take in the length of her body before coming back to meet hers.

Hot under his gaze and suddenly inspired, she slides to the edge of the bed, holds his hips and pulls him closer. She presses her lips against his stomach, and his hand is in her hair again, his touch gentle and reverent and a little uncertain as she kisses lower and lower. She draws a line with her nose back up to look at him through her lashes. “Can I?” she whispers. She feels him shiver. His mouth opens a little, closes, then he tightens his grip on her head and urges her down – her arousal spiking ridiculously, she leans down and takes him into her mouth, deep and slow.

“_Fuck_,” he breathes, his muscles jumping under her hands as she repeats the movement. Swirling her tongue around his tip, she glances up at him, and _fuck is right_, she thinks, taking him fully back into her mouth, because he looks completely obliterated, his eyes slammed shut and head dropped back, his breathing laboured. She takes his free hand and places it under her chin, and this time when she looks back up at him his eyes lock with hers. He runs his thumb over her cheek, tentatively pulling out of her mouth then pushing back in, gentle and careful, the pads of his fingers soft on her jaw, his eyes wide and expressive in a way that would’ve ruined everything in the days of the affair. She breathes through the thought – they’re not there anymore, they’re here, and it’s safe and real, and she locks her lips around him and sucks, letting her eyes fall shut, squeezing her thighs together and sending a shiver up her spine. The pulsing pressure between her legs is just about unbearable now – she wedges her hand between her thighs and rocks against it, humming low around him.

With another strangled moan, he pulls back fully this time, meets her eyes hungrily for a beat before his mouth finds hers again and they’re clambering up the bed, locked together, her hand scrabbling blindly at her nightstand. He takes pity on her, reaches over and gets a condom himself. She lies back on the pillows, drinking in the sight of him naked in front of her, laughs when she sees him check the condom is in date because yeah, it has been a while, and then he’s lowering himself down on top of her. He brings a hand around under her shoulder, tangles it into her hair, and she can feel him hard and wanting against her thigh. “This feels so good,” he murmurs, his lips against hers, nudging her nose with his.

It’s all the things she never let them have in their supply closet days, gentle and vulnerable, and her heart flutters anxiously, muscle memory. _Not now, Tyler_. She tangles her leg around his, urging him closer. “I missed you.”

He presses his lips to hers and slides a hand down her body, between her legs, and the moment his fingers make contact with her clit she arches frantically into him, gasping for air.

“Holy shit, Rebecca, you’re -”

“Told you,” she says, her breathy laugh turning into a moan as he slides his already slick fingers further and further, firm on her clit and curling inside her. He moves them slowly at first, and she’s already so close, ridiculously close, her breath coming in short gasps as she rocks against his hand. He kisses her cheek, her jaw, finds his way to her earlobe and nips there with his teeth, and her fingertips dig into his back as the sensation ignites something desperate inside her – she grabs a handful of his hair, and he takes the hint, touching her rougher and faster, and she tugs his face to hers and kisses him hard as her vision narrows and the pressure builds, then she’s soaring, falling apart with a strangled cry, clenching and shuddering around his fingers.

She whines when she feels him remove his fingers, but then he’s sliding inside her, his face buried in her neck, and god it feels so, so good, the waves of her orgasm still rolling over her as he buries himself deep inside her and holds still, letting her adjust. “Hey,” she whispers, smoothing her hands down over the muscles of his back as his hips start to rock into her, slow and deliberate. “Nathaniel?”

He jolts when she says his name, his muscles tightening, his breaths quick and uneven, and she knows from plenty of experience what that means. “Nathaniel,” she repeats, and he groans against her neck, and oh, he is so far gone. “Fuck me,” she whispers.

He doesn’t need to be told twice – one hand in her hair and one wedged under her lower back, tilting her hips up, he sets a rhythm that has her gasping for breath. And here it is – all the emotion that kept his body still and tense earlier in the day now has him losing control, whimpering curses and praise into her neck as he drives into her over and over. She clings to him, pushes her hips up to meet him, finds the right pressure on her clit and stifles her moan in his shoulder. She’s seeing stars again already, sparkles behind her eyes when she squeezes them shut, and his rhythm starts to fall apart. He stutters her name against her ear as he comes apart, dragging her with him, all four limbs wrapped tight around him as her body trembles around his.

As she comes down, her nerves still singing and eyes fluttering shut, she realises he’s supporting his weight on his forearms, and drags him down on top of her. He rolls off of her – she feels him stand from the bed, and she’s barely registered the cold air hitting her before he’s back, on his side and rolling her toward him. She tucks herself into him and hums, contentment in every cell of her body as his arms wind tight around her and his lips press into her hair. Slowly, the post-orgasm fog lifts, and she shuffles up onto the pillows, her hand finding his cheek. His eyes are pressed tight shut. “You okay?” she checks.

“I’m definitely okay,” he replies in a whisper, but makes no move to open his eyes.

She reaches down for the tangled blanket at the bottom of the bed and pulls it up over them both, smoothing it over his side. She thinks of him in his mother’s sitting room doorway, gasping for air in her car, flinching away from the word _suicide_, being dragged mid anxiety attack to endless meetings about law firms and funerals, and a gnawing guilt builds in her stomach, clawing toward her throat. “It’s been an intense day,” she says, hesitant, her heart rate picking up.

A strangled laugh escapes him at the understatement, and he reaches for her, pulling her back into him.

“This was okay, right?” she says, muffled a little by his chest and the pounding in her ears. “I haven’t…” _Ruined everything, you stupid bitch_.

“Taken advantage?” he suggests, and there’s amusement in his voice that doesn’t quite cut through her panic. “No. This was more than okay. This was… _So _good.” He presses his face into her hair, and she tries to slow her breathing, because she believes him, logically. But there’s a whole other part of her that’s been waiting in the wings for a year, ready to tell her all the reasons she shouldn’t have this, and apparently sex shines a light right on that asshole. But she’d anticipated that, she reminds herself. She waited until it felt right. Until she felt strong.

“Nathaniel,” she whispers.

“Rebecca.”

“I am so afraid I’m going to screw this up.”

She feels the slow breath he takes – in, hold, out – then he’s shifting them, tilting her chin up to look her in the eyes. She waits for him to speak, staring into his eyes, clear blue even in the mostly-darkness of her bedroom. He’s silent for seconds that stretch into eternity, then he smiles, just a quiet little smile. “I’m not,” he says. “You want to know why?”

She smiles back a little, can’t help it. “Why?”

“Because you just said that, instead of running. Because there were so many times we could’ve run from each other today, and we didn’t. I think we’ve both grown past defaulting to the self-destruct button.” Catching her about to interrupt, he clarifies, “I’m not saying the button isn’t there, Rebecca. I’m not naïve. But I don’t think it’s your default anymore, and I know it isn’t mine.”

The band around her chest loosens. _Sit your ass down, Tyler_. Because yeah, she’s seen Nathaniel panic before, but she’s never seen him just go through it and get to the other side without lashing out somehow – he’s never reached for her hand in those moments before, and she’s never felt strong enough to offer it. And in moments when she felt everything too big and high contrast and all at once and didn’t know what to say to him, she didn’t sit down at a keyboard to sing her way through it.

Sensing the shift in her mood, he smiles, rolls her onto her back, and her body responds immediately, her nerves igniting as he shifts down on the bed, settles between her legs and presses a kiss inside her thigh. She shivers in anticipation. “Okay?” he asks, and kisses her other thigh, nudging her legs open further.

“Which button are you pressing now?” she says, eyebrows raised, and he presses his tongue flat and firm against her clit in response – white hot electricity sparks through her and she grabs a handful of blanket, whispers, “_Yes_. Good choice. I approve.” He slides his hand into hers, his thumb stroking her palm soothingly as he applies his mouth to her clit, kissing her hard and firm and hot. She’s still sensitive, trembling in no time at all, clutching at his hand and definitely not missing the metaphor when she loses control completely, digging in her heels and arching off the bed and trembling all over, and his hand is still there in hers.

She comes back to her senses wrapped in his arms, the blanket back over both of them, sated and sleepy. “Nathaniel?” she murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“And you. Goodnight, Rebecca.”

“Goodnight.” She turns, her back against his front, and pulls his arms tight around her. She feels warm and safe wrapped in his arms, and she should definitely get up to pee and possibly shower, but she’s just too comfortable. She can stay gross until the morning. She closes her eyes, breathes a satisfied sigh. “Nathaniel?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Was I rusty?”

He laughs, leans around to kiss under her ear. “You were not. Was I?”

“No,” she says. “Very satisfying. Hey, one more question.”

“Fire away.”

“Does me being at the funeral with you make it better or worse? I know it’s going to suck either way, but I’d like to do whatever I can to make it less terrible.”

He presses his face into her hair and lays a hand over hers, threads their fingers together and squeezes. He’s silent so long she starts to think he’s pretending to sleep, and has just decided to leave it for now when he whispers, “Better, I think.”

She brings his hand up to her lips, kisses it then tucks it under her chin. His breathing evens out, and she falls into sync with him, waits until she’s sure he’s asleep before whispering, “I love you”, trying out the words and finding they fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading. Sorry for the rating change - I started this with an idea of where I was going, then it stopped making sense to get there without getting their clothes off so here we are. Again, I am extremely, embarrassingly new to writing smut, so any feedback is always appreciated, and I'll see you in the next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

She wakes in the middle of the night, disoriented in the darkness and unsure at first what woke her. Gradually, she becomes aware of the sound of Nathaniel’s breathing, shallow and catching a little on each inhale. He’s turned away from her, and when she shifts toward him he jolts, startled. “Sorry,” she whispers, settling a hand between his shoulder blades. She works it slowly down his spine and back up, her flat palm smoothing over tense muscles until they start to loosen a little, his breaths slowing and lengthening. “Bad dream?” she guesses.

His silence is a clear confirmation. After a few seconds, he says quietly, “That feels nice.”

She stifles a yawn between her shoulder and the pillow, blinking her eyes awake, and keeps trailing her hand soothingly up and down his back. “Anything you want to talk about?” she says. “Any complex threads of symbolism we can pull at to unravel the mystery of your psyche?”

“It was actually very straightforward,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m an idiot.”

“Well, that’s not true.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

She pushes herself up onto her elbow, tapping his arm. “Hey. Are you shame spiralling right now? Talk to me.”

“I’m supposed to be speaking at the funeral,” he says, the effort it takes to get the words out obvious in the strain of his voice. Her insides twist with sympathy for him, and she leans her chin on his shoulder. He reaches for her hand and brings it to his chest, where she holds it flat over his racing heart, and the tip of his thumb traces back and forth over the back of her wrist. “I’ve been trying to write it for days,” he says, “but every time I try – well. You saw. And now I only have tomorrow – today? – to write it and…” His thumb taps on her wrist a couple of times, as if trying to summon decisiveness. “Anyway, that was the nightmare. The classic ‘you have a speech to give and you forgot to write it’, except the speech is my father’s eulogy, and it’s real.”

She puffs out a breath, recognising the note of self-loathing in his voice, and drops back onto the pillow. “Okay,” she says, tugging on his arm. “Come here. Look at me.” He rolls to face her, and she can just make out his eyes in the darkness, locking obediently on hers. “First of all, you’re not an idiot,” she says. “I’m very familiar with procrastinating an unpleasant task until it’s almost literally impossible, so, again, join the club, we have bonnets.”

His eyes fall shut.

“Second,” she says, prodding his chest gently, “not to brag, but I am great at speeches.” He shakes his head automatically, his forehead creasing. “Seriously, Nathaniel,” she says, before he can object. “I’ll help you write something. It’s no problem.”

His hand slides around her back and he pulls her closer, nosing at her hair. She thinks it’s probably mostly to hide his face, but it works in her favour. She nuzzles into the notch of his collarbone.

“You don’t need to do any of this,” he says, his voice low and vaguely embarrassed. “This whole day has been… a mess. I really didn’t mean to put any of this on you.”

“Well, it’s all over me,” she replies. “Which is totally okay, because you have a lot going on in your brain right now, and I’m offering to help. I’ve had a lot of help carrying my brain stuff – call this paying it forward.” He releases a slow breath against the top of her head. “Anyway,” she adds, trailing her fingertips down his spine, smiling when he shivers, “I wouldn’t say the _whole_ day has been a mess. I think it really had its moments.”

“I guess we pulled it back toward the end,” he replies, his voice tinged with reluctant amusement.

Gratified, she props herself up on her elbow. “You think you can sleep?”

“Maybe. I think so.”

“Roll over, I call big spoon.”

“You’re tiny,” he points out, but rolls over anyway, taking her hand as she curls against him and holding it snug against his chest. “Thank you, Rebecca. This is… You have no idea.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice makes her chest ache with that low, humming warmth she’s come to associate with him in his absence. The whole time, she tried not to let herself consider what she would do with this feeling if he came home and still loved her too. And he does – it’s surprising how certain she is of that. But then he never really left any room for doubt, where his feelings for her were concerned.

She presses a kiss between his shoulder blades then rests her forehead there.

* * *

They work on the eulogy side by side at her kitchen table the next evening, a small selection of unappealing snacks spread in front of them in the hope of convincing Nathaniel to eat something. She texted AJ to let him know what was going on, and presumably to avoid third wheeling the most depressing date ever, he came home long enough to pick up some knitting supplies before leaving to spend the night watching people crying over cake on Netflix with Maya.

Despite her confidence last night and the significant amount of time she’s now spent reading how-to articles online, Rebecca is not really sure where to start with this. It doesn’t help that she has next to no idea what Nathaniel is actually feeling about his father’s death, and the longer they stare at the blank document on her laptop together, the more she comes to suspect he’s in the same boat.

“Okay,” she says, when they’ve been at it for about half an hour with no progress. She takes a bite out of a carrot stick and offers him the other half. He smiles and shakes his head a little, and she dunks it in peanut butter before finishing it. “Part of writing a good speech is knowing who your audience is, right?”

He raises his eyebrows a fraction, waiting for her to elaborate.

“So – okay. We don’t need to please your dad here.”

“More impossible now than ever,” he agrees, and she winces.

“Right,” she says. “So… who’s going to be there who’s gonna care what you say?”

“A lot of people,” he replies, his voice taking on an unmistakable note of tension. “Family, and people from the firm, and clients…”

“And how many of those people do you care about?” she asks.

His eyes find hers. He looks pained for a moment, like he’s considering fighting her on this, then he sighs and says, “One.”

“Right,” she says. “So that’s our audience. We’re not trying to impress your employees. We’re doing this for your mom. Forget lawyers and golfers and… country club owners or whoever else your dad hung out with. All we need to do is write something neutral to positive that you can say about him, for your mom’s sake, without wanting to claw off your own face. That’s manageable, right? I’ll type – you tell me about the illustrious life and times of Nathaniel Plimpton the Second.”

His lips quirk into a reluctant smile.

It’s generic – the kind of stuff he might comment on his father’s LinkedIn profile, plus some undisputable adjectives, all associated value judgements neatly removed – but at least they’re making progress. She turns his fragments into sentences, rearranges his stilted thoughts into some logical order, and fights the temptation to ask him for details he doesn’t offer. When he goes silent, she withdraws her hands from the keyboard hesitantly.

“Doing okay?” she checks in.

“Yeah,” he says tightly. “Just, uh – already out of things to say about him.”

“That’s fair,” she says. “Google didn’t have any advice for when the person you’re eulogising had no redeeming features. I think we’re doing great so far, considering.”

He smiles a little, but it fades quickly. “I’m also…” he begins, his eyes flitting to hers then away again immediately. “I’m not good with death, ever since I was a kid. I was doing okay at first, but… I guess it’s catching up with me.”

“Nathaniel,” she breathes, her heart lurching, “it’s okay. That’s… more than understandable. Let me just wrap this up, okay? I don’t think any more inspiration is gonna strike any time soon.” She writes a hasty final paragraph saying thank you for coming and how very much it means to Nathaniel and his mother to see so many people there, then she hits save and pushes her laptop away, pulling a face at it then turning to look at him. “We did it,” she says firmly. “It’s written. Read that out, and get your ass back to your seat.”

He drags a hand over his face, not quite able to meet her eyes. “Thank you,” he says, awkward and apologetic.

“Hey,” she says firmly. “Would you stop beating yourself up please? This is okay. I called you, remember? I told you, I’m wading into your issues with my eyes wide open – nobody can do everything all alone all the time, Plimptons included.”

He smiles vaguely, clearly unconvinced, and it hits her all at once that this is brand new territory for him. He came so far from _I feel things for you_ in such a short time that it never occurred to her – intensely self-absorbed though she now realises this is – that she’s never really seen him open up about anything other than _her_ before. She’d dragged a few kernels about his childhood out of him and been flattered when he said after two weeks together that he felt closer to her than anyone else, but with perspective, it strikes her as kind of depressing. They barely knew each other then. And she is intimately familiar with the crushing insecurity of being _too much_.

Nathaniel never, ever made her feel like she was too much.

She takes a breath. “Hey, Nathaniel?”

He’s just about reconstructed a neutral expression, and he looks at her with a decent imitation of polite interest. “Mm?”

“I love you.”

His eyes widen, and his eyebrows raise the tiniest amount in surprise, and for a long moment that’s it – he just stares at her, lips slightly parted. She knows what this must look like. Classic Rebecca Bunch impulsive whiplash, at the worst possible time. Anxiety flutters up her throat, and she holds his searching eye contact so long her eyes start to water, fighting the temptation to start babbling an explanation she knows would only deepen his concern. When he reaches for her, her body responds before she’s processed it, climbing into his lap and bringing their lips together. Her fingertips press into the back of his neck and his hands are tight on her back, but the kiss itself is soft and hesitant, and she can feel him holding his breath. When they pull apart, he lets it out all at once, his shoulders dropping.

“Rebecca…” he begins hesitantly, and she can hear it as clearly as if he’d said it: _is this a pity proclamation? _

“I never stopped,” she says softly. She rests her forehead against his, brushing her thumbs over his jaw, her heart beating so fast it’s practically vibrating. “This isn’t an ‘I fell in love with you in the past two days because I’m impulsive and you’re vulnerable’ kind of thing. More like an ‘I’ve had a lot of time to think about this and I’ve been trying not to spring this intense thing on you at a stupid time but now I think you might really need to hear it’ kind of thing.”

His face softens the tiniest amount with the ghost of a smile. It makes her heart flutter dizzyingly faster, but it makes her braver too.

“I didn’t know how to do it right,” she says, nudging his nose with hers, “and sometimes there was no room for it in my brain, and it got all jumbled up with my whole identity crisis thing and that was confusing, but I loved you. I love you now, present tense. And I think I can do a better job of it now I’ve turned a corner on the whole having-a-fundamental-self front. If, um… If you want that.”

He smiles for real this time, and relief sparks bright and hopeful in her chest.

“I love you too, Rebecca,” he says quietly, squeezing her hips. “Obviously. I should’ve said that right away.”

She shakes her head a little. “No, it’s – I know.”

He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, and the spark grows, warmth blossoming deep in her chest and spreading all the way to her fingertips. They smile at each other for a moment, nose to nose. “I love you,” he repeats.

She sits back, resting her hands on his shoulders and trying her best to look like someone who has had a lot of therapy and knows what she’s getting into. “I know this has been weirdly intense,” she says, in her most mature and level-headed voice. “And I’m sorry for springing this on you. When you move back from Guatemala for real, if you want to try this again, we’ll do it right, okay? We’ll… go on real dates and spend nights apart and whatever else normal people do. But right now this is where we are, and Nathaniel, I want to be here with you. Whatever that means.”

“Dating sounds good,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling softly. “I would like that. Also, can I clear something up?”

“Of course.”

His fingertips trail from her temple to her jaw, then trace along to tilt her chin up a little. His eyes scan her face, all intense focus, and it makes her feel warm and tingly and _seen_ in that way he always has. “It’s never going to be the wrong time to hear you say you love me,” he says. “You caught me by surprise. But you didn’t do anything wrong, okay? Don’t…” He trails off, making a vague gesture with his wrist.

“Spiral about this?” she interprets, smiling.

“Yeah. Okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees. “Thank you.” She fidgets with the neckline of his t-shirt, the warmth of his gaze turning into prickling heat low in her spine. “So do you think we should go back to not having sex, or…?”

His eyebrows raise and his hold shifts to her thighs. She wraps her arms back around his shoulders, grinning, and he stands easily, tightening his grip on her as he carries her to her bedroom. “I think we’ve shown we can communicate other ways,” he replies, nudging her hair out of the way to kiss her neck. “I’d say we’re in the clear.”

“I so agree.”

* * *

She sits in the church, compulsively smoothing the skirt of her black dress over her thighs. She checks her phone every couple of seconds, as if he’s going to text her from a funeral car. If she’s going to be moral support, he’s going to need to be able to see where she is, so she’s sitting in a mostly empty row right behind the one reserved for family, feeling very much out of place. It’s surprisingly well attended for the funeral of a man who was pleasant to exactly nobody, although no one looks particularly upset so far – it’s a sea of expensive black clothing and impassive faces. The order of service in her hands says they are _Celebrating the life of Nathaniel Plimpton II_. It never occurred to her until it was handed to her how strange it was going to feel to see Nathaniel’s name there. _Note to self_, she thinks, _if naming a child, don’t give them the same name as someone whose funeral they might attend someday_. She hadn’t expected to contemplate the terrifying prospect of Nathaniel’s mortality just yet, but here she is. The least helpful part of her brain points out that it’s only fair, since he’s already been starkly reminded of hers.

She checks her phone again.

The organ starts playing, everyone around her stands, and she follows, facing straight forward with her teeth gritted against the almost overwhelming impulse to turn around to look for Nathaniel. After what feels like an eternity, he files into the row in front of her after several people she’s never seen before, and his mother. He catches her eye briefly, paler than she’s ever seen him, and when he takes his seat, she shuffles along to sit directly behind him. She hesitates for a second, then plants a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, feeling the rise and fall of a single, shaky breath before sitting back in her seat.

The ceremony is dull and religious, the alleged achievements of Nathaniel’s father nauseatingly overstated. The swirl of her thoughts is slower now that she can at least see Nathaniel, although the clear few inches of space between him and his mother make her want to wrap her entire body around him and hold on tight like a spider monkey. Her mind wanders from the service, focusing so intently on Nathaniel that the panicked voice in her head starts up again, but she shoves it back. This actually _is_ all about him, on purpose. That’s allowed in this situation.

The first person who gets up to speak is someone from the firm, an older man with whom Nathaniel’s father apparently went _way back_. He uses the phrase _great man_, and her stomach lurches as Nathaniel’s spine stiffens. She tunes the rest out.

She’s heard the word _Nathaniel_ so many times since the service started, she doesn’t register the minister was talking about him until he stands, and she reaches for him without thinking. He looks momentarily surprised, but gives her hand a quick squeeze over the back of the pew before walking toward the altar. She feels Mrs Plimpton’s eyes on her for a second and flushes, looking down, but she’s still turned toward her when she looks back up. She catches Rebecca’s eye and inclines her head toward the space Nathaniel has just vacated, and the empty space beside it. Relieved, Rebecca only hesitates for a second before moving as swiftly and silently as possible to the row in front.

He looks terrible. Terrible by Nathaniel’s standards, anyway – he’s in a crisp white shirt, a perfectly tailored black suit, not a hair or a bit of fabric out of place, and everything about his appearance is pristine, except he’s so pale there’s a moment when his hand grips the edge of the podium and she really thinks he’s going to pass out. She watches his throat contract as he swallows, the tiny tremor in his hands as he unfolds the paper she printed the eulogy on, and his eyes find hers. She rests a hand over her diaphragm and mouths _breathe_. He looks down, smoothing the paper down on the podium, and takes a couple of breaths.

He begins to read. He’s been standing there in silence long enough that his amplified voice comes as a surprise, and a vague ripple of _well that was awkward_ relief washes over the congregation. For an intense couple of seconds, Rebecca hates every one of them so much her lungs burn with it. But she breathes slowly and watches Nathaniel, and there’s no room for any emotion other than the smouldering protectiveness she feels for him. He reads out exactly what they wrote, barely looks up from the paper and makes no last minute additions, and it could not be plainer that he doesn’t have a good word to say about his father. Rebecca chances a sideways glance at his mother. She looks unnervingly like she did the last time they met: quiet, timid, passive. Unsurprised.

Rebecca stands to let him file back into his space. When they sit back down side by side, she rests her hand in the space between them, palm up. She’s surprised when he takes it.

* * *

He manages maybe thirty minutes of polite mingling and accepting condolences back at his mother’s house before starting to visibly fray around the edges. It slowly becomes clear that at least half the people in this room are now his employees, and he endures several rounds of not so subtle enquiry about the future of the firm before Rebecca shuts the last one down with a poorly faked coughing fit. When Nathaniel excuses them, she ditches the act immediately, tucks her hand into his elbow and gently guides him out of the room. “Vultures,” she mutters, and he makes a vague sound of agreement in the back of his throat.

She meant to go outside, but when they reach the hallway, he heads for the stairs. She follows, noting yet more floral wallpaper and polished mahogany. She can’t imagine anyone actually sleeping in this place. He opens one of the identical heavy doors and steps aside to let her walk in first. It looks like an expensive, old fashioned hotel room.

With the door shut behind them, he closes his eyes and drags both hands slowly over his face. “You okay?” she says gently.

He drops his hands and looks down at his feet. “I’m fine,” he says. His eyes are glassy, his voice choked and raw like he hasn’t used it for days. She rests a hand on his arm, her throat tightening in sympathy, and his whole body tenses as he pulls away. “I’m fine,” he repeats, a bite in his voice that makes her wince. “Don’t – I can’t do this.”

The rejection jolts through her body like an electric current, so intense the force of it startles her back a half step. Curling her hands to fists, she looks down at the beige carpet under her heels and breathes through it, forcing herself not to fall into the montage sequence of slammed doors her brain is trying to drag her into. _Not about you_, she reminds herself, over and over, focusing on the bite of her fingernails into her palms. When her heart rate steps down to something more manageable, she releases a long, slow breath, then looks up and reaches for him again. He looks as lost as he did before, and also intensely guilty, his face stricken and eyes unmistakably pooling with tears. She takes a slow step toward him, like he’s an animal she’s trying not to spook, and rests her hands on his chest. “Hey,” she says, her voice coming out almost a whisper. “Is it okay if I hug you?”

He’s still for another moment, tense and guarded, then he pulls her against him in one movement, wrapping his arms tight around her back as hers wind around his shoulders. He buries his face in her neck and breathes her in, hands splayed across her back, melting into her like he always has. Relief and sadness combine to a dizzying mess of emotion in her overactive brain, and she hugs back hard.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Shh, no, it’s fine. God, Nathaniel, it’s okay to feel things.”

He mumbles a response she doesn’t quite catch. She pulls back a little, inclining her head toward him. “Hmm?”

“Not here,” he repeats.

“Oh,” she says softly, tucking her face back into his neck. “Well, that’s bullshit. Not _your _bullshit, I know, and it’s okay. Whatever you need to do. But if you don’t let yourself feel whatever this is right now, then a week from now you’re gonna stub your toe or get a papercut or something, and turn into a blubbering mess all over whatever random semi stranger happens to be present, so it’s probably best if you just let it happen now.”

She feels the tremor of a laugh run through him. “Who have you been talking to?”

“I’ve heard you’re kind of a crier,” she says, smiling. “My sources are varied, but reputable.”

It’s true, and he clearly knows it. He tugs her toward the bed and sits, his face still tilted away from her, and she kicks her heels off and kneels at his side. He pulls her in close and buries his face in her shoulder again. There’s a note of resignation to it, but relief too, and his hands trace over her back for a second, taking her in. He takes a breath that’s almost a gulp, then he’s holding onto her like he’s drowning, and crying quietly into her shoulder. She can only imagine what kind of sayings his father would have about this, and she knows she can’t undo a lifetime of damage with one hug, but that doesn’t stop her from trying. He’s tense under her hands at first, trembling all over and holding on tight to some semblance of control. It burns her throat and aches deep inside her chest, but it also feels good to be the one doing the comforting for a change. As much as her relationships with her friends have improved over the past nine months – and they have, in countless ways – she is nobody’s first choice of shoulder to cry on. The reasons are obvious and understandable, but it still kind of hurts. Nathaniel melts against her slowly, and she holds onto him, trailing soothing fingers through the back of his hair.

“I love you,” she whispers, when his breathing starts to even out. “And I’m sorry about all of this. The whole mess. And about your mom – I know I never actually responded to that. It’s awful, and I can’t imagine how that must have felt, and I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, thumbing apologetically at the damp shoulder of her dress.

“And Nathaniel,” she adds, hesitant, because she’s sure this isn’t the time, but the comfort of being the comforter is coming with a different insecurity and she can’t seem to keep her mouth shut, “whatever you do with the firm – it’s your decision, okay? You don’t owe those people anything. Or me. I obviously don’t want you to move to LA, but if that’s what you –”

“Rebecca,” he interrupts, incredulous. He pushes back on her shoulders until she rocks back on her heels to look at him. He swipes a hand over his eyes and looks at her, shaking his head a little. “I’m not moving to LA. You know that, right? I don’t know exactly what I’ll do with the firm long term, but you’ve already been introduced to the guy who’s running the place while I’m gone, and he’s…” He closes his eyes for a second, visibly rerouting his train of thought. “I don’t want to talk about the firm right now,” he says with finality. “Honestly, I don’t care about it right now, at all. I don’t know if I ever will. But Rebecca, no matter what happens, I’m not moving to LA.” He combs her hair back from her face with his fingers, his eyes still watery, searching her face. “I’m coming home. I always was.”

The word _home _flutters straight to her heart and takes root there despite her uneasiness. She closes her eyes and lets her head drop to his shoulder, and he drapes his arms around her back, drops a kiss in her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, discomfort prickling up the back of her neck. “I don’t know how I managed to make this about me. I really tried not to, like, so many different times today.”

He laughs. “About _us_,” he corrects gently. “And only for the past thirty seconds.”

She takes a slow breath, letting his reality check settle in, ending the spiral before it’s made a full revolution.

“I wanted to thank you, actually,” he continues, “for, um – for being here. You’ve been…”

“An actual human being for the first time since you’ve known me?” she suggests.

He pushes her back again to look her in the eyes. “Stop that,” he says firmly. “_No_. You’ve been everything I needed you to be, and more than I could’ve hoped for, from anyone. You probably can’t tell, but it does help, having you here. I know I’m… not good at this stuff.”

She takes a breath, swallowing the last of her insecurity. “This may come as a surprise,” she says, fidgeting with his collar, “but I’m not actually here to judge your coping-with-death skills. You’re doing fine, Nathaniel. Nobody’s good at this stuff.” She tugs the knot of his tie a little looser. “And you’re welcome. I want to be here with you.”

He scrubs at his eyes again, and looks past her. She follows his gaze to the window. “You want some air?” she suggests.

She slips back into her heels. They’re reasonably comfortable, as heels go, and she likes the way they reduce the height disadvantage a little. They stand side by side at the open window, taking deep breaths like they’ve just been released from prison, looking out across the garden. It’s pristine, of course. There are a lot of rosebushes.

“So is this room, um –” she begins, looking over her shoulder. It could not be more generic. Beige walls, beige carpet, mahogany furniture, expensive floral bedsheets. “Is this your bedroom?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing back for a second then fixing his gaze firmly back outside. “Or it was. As soon as I went to college, my parents redecorated. My father didn’t believe in _extended adolescence_.”

“Oh,” she says. She thinks, _what a dick_. She says, “So when you came home for the holidays, or for summer –”

“I slept in here and it looked like a mid-market hotel room,” he interrupts wryly. “Yeah. But I didn’t come home for long, if I could avoid it. There was the Hamptons, which was no better, really. I did internships. And a very short road trip, once.”

“Huh,” she says, eyebrows raised. “I can’t imagine you on a great American road trip, somehow.”

He glances at her sideways, half smiling. “No,” he agrees. “Neither can I. But it happened.”

She leans into him a little, trying to picture Nathaniel and a bunch of other rich water polo kids piled into a minivan, eating snacks and talking about life. She wrinkles her nose. The image doesn’t compute, so she searches for another. “Waaait,” she says, as one clicks into place. “Tell me the road trip was with your weird theatre major Harry Potter loving roommate.”

He doesn’t say anything, so she stands up straight to look at him properly. He smiles enigmatically.

She grins. “That is the best news. Stanford Nathaniel fascinates me more and more. I kinda wish I’d met you in college.”

“You would’ve hated me,” he says.

“I hated you anyway,” she says automatically, without conviction. Immediately, she adds, “That was never true. Not even when I wanted it to be.”

The force of his exhale suggests he knows the feeling. She leans against the window frame again, and they stare out at the garden side by side in silence for a while.

“I keep thinking I’m supposed to have regrets,” he says eventually, scrubbing a hand over his face. The tightness is gone from his voice, and now he just sounds exhausted. “The last time I spoke to him was… exactly like all the other times. He was a dick, and I tried not to let him get to me, and I mostly failed, which made him more of a dick because I was being weak. And that was the end of it. I think I’m supposed to feel like there was something else I should’ve said. Something I would’ve done differently, or – I don’t know.”

“Feelings aren’t really a _supposed to_ kind of situation,” she says, paraphrasing Doctor Akopian. “You just… feel what you feel and go from there.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, shooting a sad half smile in her direction.

“But for what it’s worth,” she goes on, “I think it’s reasonable to think you had nothing left to say to him.” She thinks of Silas, and realises with a jolt in her stomach that despite the obvious context, it’s the first time she’s thought about him all day. She sidesteps closer, and Nathaniel drapes an arm around her waist. “And I think you’re probably right,” she says. “He didn’t deserve anything more from you.”

He kisses the top of her head and she shifts in his arms, turning to face him and sliding her hands up his chest. “You okay?” she asks softly.

“I am,” he replies. “I just needed a break from…”

“Perfect Plimpton?” she suggests, eyebrows raised, and he pulls a face but doesn't contradict her. “You want to brave downstairs some more and start doing eyeball shots of scotch, or is it time to call it quits?”

He sighs, squeezing her waist. “I think I should probably go back for a while,” he says regretfully, pulling the knot of his tie tight and straight again. “But we don’t need to stay for long. It eases the pressure on my mother a little if they have someone else to harass, but they’ll start leaving soon. Unsurprisingly, none of them liked him.”

“Whenever you need me to choke on an olive to get you out of there, just let me know,” she says. “Ooh, maybe we should come up with a signal.”

He shakes his head, smiling a little. “You figured it out just fine for yourself last time. Thank you for that. But maybe go for a different diversion next time, just to keep it realistic.”

“Done,” she agrees, taking his hand and heading for the door. She opens it and steps back, gesturing with a sweep of her arm for him to walk through first.

He rolls his eyes, then grabs her by the waist, pulls her body flush with his and kisses her hard. She grabs the lapels of his jacket and responds with enthusiasm, a thrill running up her spine as he presses her against the door and gasps the breath right out of her mouth.

She’s a little breathless when he pulls back, his eyes dark and cheeks flushed. “Not that I’m complaining,” she says, smoothing the front of his jacket, “but what was that for?”

“For something to look forward to, I hope,” he says.

“Oh, sold,” she replies, taking his hand as they step into the hallway. “Go easy on those eyeball shots, in that case.”

“I really don’t think that’s a thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! NaNoWriMo ate my November and December - for more details, see the outcome, _but if you really hold me tight_.
> 
> If you made it this far, thank you! All feedback is, as always, appreciated. You can find me on tumblr - I'm eyesontheskyline there too.


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